


To Keep You Warm

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, New Year's Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Visiting the New Year’s Market in Vienna together, Spain reminisces.





	To Keep You Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr (winter 2016).

The winter in Vienna is cold enough to cut through all of Spain’s layers of clothes and chill her to the bone. Adding insult to injury, she can’t even feel Austria’s hand through the two layers of her glove and red mitten - which is a _ terrible injustice, _ considering Austria so rarely holds her hand when out they’re in public, and today’s wonderful excuse that Austria does ‘not want to lose a lackadaisical idiot such as yourself in the busy market crowd’ will not last beyond today. (Especially since it’s more like _ Austria _ does not want to get herself lost in the crowds and then have to hand herself into the missing children/lost and found desk again like the _ last _ time they’d had a date together at an autumn fair. Spain had brought her a toffee apple. It had not helped soothe the wound to Austria’s dignity.)

Schönbrunn, at least, is very pretty. The palace’s windows are lit, warm, from within, and the lights from the large Christmas tree and stalls without twinkle very prettily on the frost and the windowpanes and walls. Between the snow and the Baroque neoclassicism, the building and grounds look something like a very intricate and expensive Christmas cake, sweet spun sugar and dreams of warm winter days long ago.

Austria had always looked like an exquisite porcelain doll in those days, a kind of neatness in her dresses that Spain had never been able to match, trails of lace and ruffles and ribbons and her hair in perfect curls. Spain had adored kissing Austria like that, because it meant she had got to mess and muss all of that up, slip darker fingers into neat gowns and find warm blushing flesh beneath. Austria’s china-white skin has always bloomed like red carnations both when she’s very mad and very embarrassed, and she is so good at scolding Spain in one breath for kissing her breathless and thanking Spain in the next for her gifts from far away.

In those days, it had been jewels. Jewels and glossy furs and spices that made their kisses spark and sweet.

These days, Austria has grown to appreciate more mundane things. To the point where they have been at this New Year’s Market in front of the Schönbrunn Palace for _ three hours, _ and Spain has six shopping bags weighing down the crook of one of her arms. (All of the shopping bags are Austria’s, and Austria is carrying only herself. With great elegance. Spain has _ two things _ in one of the bags: a spinning metal snowflake ornament for herself, and a small set of three beautifully carved wooden sheep which she will be giving to Portugal, as Portugal’s Nativity Scene is so old its features have been worn smooth by centuries of handling, prayers and thumbs.)

“We are getting punch,” Spain announces, pulling Austria to the stall selling it on their left. She is cold, and the steam will warm up her poor nose, since ten minutes ago Austria had refused to be endearing and kiss it better for her.

“We have already _ had _ punch today.” Austria is making a face, and it is not happy. Austria has many faces, and this is one of the fussy ones that implies Spain has suggested something outrageous - which means, these days, that Spain has suggested something offending Austria’s sensibilities regarding either (or both, Spain can be very versatile) sex or money.

Spain cannot - immediately - think of anything sexual about punch, so she just smiles, bright enough to shake the frost off of Austria’s purse. _ “I _ am buying punch, because I am very cold. Would you like some?”

Most of Austria’s ruffled feathers are soothed with the knowledge ‘extravagance’ will come at someone else’s expense. Her shoulders lose their hunched-up defensiveness around her frugality, her brown braid slipping over her shoulder as a slight embarrassed smile touches her lips. “Oh, but you already bought us the vanillekipferl…”

Spain buys them both punch, and, when Austria pushes her own scarf down further so she can drink without getting it stained, leans over in the steam to kiss the other woman quick as a twinkle from the candlelight around them.

Already a little pink from the cold, Austria goes pinker. “Excuse me?”

Spain smiles again, more sincerely than before. “You look very pretty with your winter lights in your eyes.”

Austria goes as red as the poinsettias being sold two stalls down, her tongue tripping over the Spanish they use between them. “Oh - yes - well -”

“Thank you?” Spain suggests, quite pleased with herself.

_ “Don’t get ahead of yourself,_” says Austria, still clearly flustered, and then buries her nose in her cup of punch so Spain cannot see her expression as well. After a sip she adds, much more quietly, “Vielan Dank.”

_ “Schon gut!” _ Despite their marriage, Spain does not have much German. What she had learnt, she had learnt out of necessity, but all that had really stuck had been her pleases and thank yous and all the pretty words to murmur into Austria’s ear in the warmth of their bed. Most other things in life she had managed to achieve with simply a smile or a sword. Or a patient wife. Or just taking her clothes off. She trips gladly back to Spanish again, happy with a blushing Austria and a hot cup of punch in her hand: “I have more kisses if you would like those too?”

“For the _ punch,_” says Austria, barely above an embarrassed hiss.

Spain sighs, and readjusts her shopping bags. “_Bitte _ for that too, _ liebling._”

Austria is just extremely lucky she is so pretty in the market lights. Spain is _ cold. _


End file.
